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of the British Isles, coaxing each other into a forward roll on their bed. It’s a smashing image. Makes me feel I’ve made a real difference.

    Now I’ve done what can only be described, in literary terms, as a Big Old Fat digression. So, a Big Old Fat apology needed – sorry, soz, soz buckets, a bucket full of soz to you. Let’s resume.
    Yes, so – you’re in your teens. Hobbies can’t be just for fun any more: you have to be good at them. There’s no more lolloping around in a leotard and tights for you, missus. No more collecting stickers. And no more swapping. At the age of ten you’ll swap your last ever sticker at a swapping party: the next time swapping will be even vaguely acceptable is when you’re fifty-five, divorced and exchanging pressed flowers with the ladies from the local Nature Club. Or, if male, when you’re fifty-five, divorced and a member of a very serious Stamp Collectors’ Society of Great Britain (unless, of course, you’re into sci-fi memorabilia. Here, new rules apply – I believe there’s a natty underground scene revolving around the exchange of latex Spock masks and
Star Trek
phasers. I don’t understand what I’ve just said, let alone what this involves, but each to their own. And if this appeals to you, then may God bless you, and I hope you find a girlfriend soon so you can move out of your mum’s utility room).
    The worst thing for me about the teenage loss of hobbies was
NO MORE BALLET
. It was a sad moment in my life to discover that a six-foot fifteen year old was no longer welcome in the ballet class. Suddenly, it was all about being proficient and ambitious. There was talk of certain members of the class ‘going to college’ and ‘turning professional’.
    ‘Balls to that,’ I said, as me and my very small, very round friend galumphed on for a few rounds of ‘I’m a little teapot.’ It was going fine until we got to ‘Here’s my handle, here’s my spout . . .’ (the rest of the class were dancing
The Nutcracker
, by the way). I lost my balance, jarred into my friend, whose excellently placed spout nudged into one of the dancers when she was
en pointe
, who then fell into the girl next to her, causing a domino effect of collapsing ballerinas. I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever seen, but we were, shall we say, ‘not welcome back’.
    How rude is that? What if I – perhaps at age seventeen or eighteen – had suddenly passed through the clunky teapot phase and really come into my own as a ballerina? What if I had suddenly blossomed? What if my gawkiness had fallen away to reveal a truly major dance talent? I could have been Darcey Bussell. That could have been
me
. I could have re-invented modern ballet with my elongated strides. I now regularly re-invent modern ballet in the privacy of my kitchen and, in my humble opinion, believe it’s a crying shame others don’t get to pay to witness it on a grand stage. But the English National Ballet will never know because between the ages of thirteen and nineteen, you’re not allowed to do
anything
fun unless you’re immediately and conventionally good at it. ‘Harrumph,’ I say to that.
Harrumph
.
    The abandonment of hobbies in your teens means that by the time you’re in your twenties, the extra-curricular cupboard is bare. You’re doing nothing. And, by some terrible twist of fate, this is also the time of your life when you have to start applying for jobs, and applying for jobs involves putting together a CV, and a CV inevitably involves a Hobbies section. The one time you need hobbies, you are hobby-less. You stare at the blank page, and panic. What do I like? Do I like anything? What are my hobbies? You ask your friends – what do I like? What do I do? What do I like to do? Well, your helpful friends respond, you like drinking pints, you like impersonating certain television presenters like Roy Walker from
Catchphrase
, and occasionally you like ordering a pizza. Last night you thought it